


better than your best

by menocchio



Series: without a map [2]
Category: Karate Kid (Movies)
Genre: 1985, Established Relationship, KK3 Mess Around, M/M, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-19 09:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29872251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menocchio/pseuds/menocchio
Relationships: Daniel LaRusso/Johnny Lawrence
Series: without a map [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2196132
Comments: 232
Kudos: 212





	1. Starting the Bracket

Something had is something gold  
in the hand, or the eye. unless  
of course you lose it.

(Are you gonna lose it?)

Everything but him is a struggle  
right now, like maybe the world  
is out to get you.

(Are you gonna let it get you?)

Empty stretch of road  
ahead; the future is so numbingly  
open, surely an easy strike.

(Are you gonna strike?)

Home is supposed to be a place  
of rest; nothing happens there—  
who the fuck told you that?


	2. Johnny vs LAX

Flying was a stupid way to travel, he thought for at least the tenth time that day. You stuff yourself in a tin can in the sky with nothing to look at but the seat in front of you; a blink of a trip bookended by overcrowded shopping malls. Where was the adventure? The people in this place weren't traveling, they were – _commuting_.

What's more, they were late commuters. Where the hell was the plane?

He thought it would be easier if he stopped watching the actual gate like any second Daniel would appear in the doorway of the boarding area, smiling and finally here. So he decided to look away. He wandered past the newsstand again; the All American Burger; the duty-free tobacconist. He reached the end of his tape and flipped it.

But soon enough, without really even choosing to, he ended up back with the crowd in front of the gate where TWA flight 4673 out of Newark was supposedly deboarding, and had been for the past _forty minutes_.

He didn't understand why Daniel didn't just let him drive out again.

He felt out of place among this huge crowd of family and underlings and strangers-with-placards. Maybe he should've written a sign, made a joke of it? Daniel probably would've gotten a kick out of that: Johnny holding a page with something dumb on it, like _karate god_ or something. Oh well. Too late.

He reached the end of his tape. Flipped it.  
  


* * *

  
It had been nothing, really. Three, almost four weeks since Johnny drove back from New Jersey, and it wasn't that bad, honest. Because waiting for Daniel was better than just living through the day, not expecting anything. When he wasn't missing him, it was a little like having a secret identity, a super power only he knew about.

Plus, Daniel called every day.

That kid was merciless with his uncle's phone bill.

Johnny was almost as scared as he was eager at the idea of him being actually back, because he knew once Daniel was here, Johnny's memory of the trip would become solidly a thing of the past. It would stop being a companion to his days, something he thought about and held in the slower moments.

And what if – what if they were different? What if it didn't feel the same way: all his dumbest, worst fears about something changing once they were no longer on the road coming true?  
  


* * *

  
The newsstand; the All American Burger; the duty-free tobacconist. Johnny didn't sigh because he wasn't dramatic, but he rolled his eyes upwards a little. He pivoted on his heel to walk back towards the gate, and Daniel was standing in his way.

People flowed around them, performing the overburdened airport side-step, luggage banging against legs, expressions distracted and unseeing.

He was wearing new clothes, Johnny noticed: a thick blue sweatshirt and jeans, stuff meant for colder climes, never mind it was seventy degrees outside. And he was smiling at Johnny, brown eyes arrested and warm.

Johnny belatedly dragged his headphones down around his neck. Idol bled out into the air.

“Here I thought you'd be at the gate, breathlessly awaiting my victorious return,” said Daniel, and his voice was the same, of course it was.

“I was,” he said, stepping closer. Shifting on his feet, like this was a match. “But I got bored.”

“Bored? You're not supposed to get bored while pining, Johnny.” Daniel watched him for a few seconds, something that looked a lot like happiness starting to overpower his expression. It flooded his grin, ruined his lecturing tone. He was here.

Johnny couldn't say anything, so he sort of shrugged and smiled back in relief.

“Well, hell,” said Daniel after a couple seconds, shrugging off his backpack, “if you're not gonna do it—”

He took an unsuspecting Johnny around the middle, slid his leg in and fucking dipped him. A couple people passing chuckled – oh, boys; friends, making a joke.

He blinked up at Daniel, whose eyes were lit up with delight and starting to shine with an unholy glow of impish challenge, and Johnny could barely do more than lock his core to keep them stable in the air and think, dazed: hang on second. You can't just. This isn't. The world?

The laughs cut off when Daniel bent and kissed him.


	3. Johnny vs 30,000 Parking Spots

Fifteen minutes later, Johnny's face was still burning and they still hadn't found the car.

He could've sworn it was in this lane; five down and seven across from the edge of terminal sidewalk. Hadn't it been five down and seven across? Or had it been seven down and five across? He turned in place, squinting against the sun glinting off all that automotive metal. Rows of cars stretched out in all directions, heat turning the air hazy over the hoods.

“Whew, home sweet home,” said Daniel, for the second time. He'd taken off his sweater but was still sweating, and it was hard to look at him and concentrate, so Johnny just – didn't. “The smog, the heat, the sunshine. Getting lost in the desert—”

“We're not lost in the desert,” said Johnny. “It's a parking lot.”

“A parking lot in the desert,” he pointed out.

“And we're not lost!”

He set off with renewed speed. Perhaps if he acted like he knew where was going, memory would follow. He just needed his brain to get out of the way of his feet.

“Hey, hold up,” called Daniel, and Johnny paused and waited for him.

Daniel waved his bunched sweater meaningfully and ripped open the backpack slung over Johnny's shoulder to stuff it away. He zipped it up again and slapped him on the back with a smile. Johnny turned away and continued searching for the car.

If it had been seven down and five across but they went five down and seven across, they needed to go two back and two up and—

Hang on.

Johnny looked up at the sun and then back at the airport terminal. Daniel waited, hands clasped behind his head, seemingly content to watch him. He was still idly smiling.

“We went out the wrong door,” said Johnny. “We're supposed to be in the northwest lot.”

“Hey, that's okay. I needed to stretch my legs after that flight.”  
  


* * *

  
“And there she is,” said Daniel, jogging forward to the Avanti. “Heya, sweetheart.”

“Even I don't call her that,” said Johnny, tossing Daniel's backpack into the back seat with great finality and relief. He didn't stop walking.

“Well, no, you don't go for pet names. But that's alright, I got you covered. I figure a car needs both kinds of parenting, y'know? One to wash it and be all strict about what fluids go in, and the other to – oh, hey, hm,” because Johnny had crowded him against the passenger side. The scalding heat from the Avanti could be felt through the knee of his jeans, and he took care to stop Daniel from resting his hands on the door via guiding them around his waist.

Daniel put his head back to meet his gaze: mouth curving, eyes half-lidded. And it wasn't that he was preferable to the show-off who insisted on outing them to a bunch of strangers in an airport, because that guy was as much Daniel as this private, pleased version. And Johnny liked them both, but right now he needed this one.

“Okay,” said Daniel quietly; smiling, always smiling at him, “hit me with your best shot, Johnny.”

Johnny took his head in his hands and kissed him. And this time, they didn't have to stop.


	4. Johnny vs The 405

With LAX's flying saucer in the rearview, they drove back to the valley.

He'd dreamed of this a couple times – just this: Daniel back in the passenger seat, the Avanti carrying them fast down the road beneath a sunny sky. Boring dream, all told, and he'd be fine with having it again.

The real thing is better though. Johnny knew the 405 like his own fist, and it allowed him to focus on the important parts of the drive, like passing taxicabs and watching the wind through Daniel's hair. But he wasn't the only one doing some watching.

Johnny slid his eyes over. “What.”

“Nothing, nothing.”

He waited another half mile before pulling his sunglasses off. “ _What_.”

Daniel grinned and slouched into the corner of the seat. “Can't I enjoy the view? Home is a good look on you. You seem very – relaxed.”

“I am relaxed. You're not,” he said, pointedly reaching over and pressing the other boy's knee into stillness.

“Hey, I'm just eager to be back, see Mr. Miyagi again.” Johnny waited, not taking his hand off the knee. “...And I'm trying to decide what to tell him.”

“What do you mean. Tell him what?”

“About us, genius.”

Johnny was so surprised, he let the knee go. He put his hand back on the wheel so they wouldn't crash and said, belatedly, “I mean. You don't have to. Do you? Maybe you shouldn't. I mean, why would you? Don't?”

“Because he's my best friend? You said Bobby knew about you.”

“Yeah, but not because I told him. I'm not an idiot. It's not like one day in the eighth grade I leaned over in social studies and went, _hey, by the way_.”

“Okay, fair. But Mr. Miyagi's not an eighth grader.”

No, he was practically a senior citizen. But if Johnny started listing all the ways Daniel was incredibly fucking weird, they'd never finish this conversation.

Some of Johnny's reservations must've been obvious on his face, because before he can say anything more, Daniel continues:

“Look, it's not a big deal.” Not a big deal! Johnny thinks. How had he forgotten that Daniel was from another planet? “I'm just strategizing. Trying to think of the best way to do this. Mr. Miyagi's kind of old-fashioned, you see.”

His stomach twisted a little. “But that's – bad, right? That seems bad. Maybe you shouldn't tell him.”

“No, not like that.” Daniel paused, searching for the words. “I mean he's very – gallant, okay, like he big on rules about how to treat a lady right. So I guess – I just need to figure out a way to get him to understand you're my lady.”

Johnny's expression suffered a structural collapse, and he said, annoyed, “I am not your lady.”

And then Daniel was swinging up against him, one hand on his thigh and mouth to his ear, exaggerated huskiness wavering on a breathy, “No, you're my big. Strong. _Man_.”

He barely got the words out before he gave way to a gale of laughter. Johnny endured.

“Hey, you walked right into that one,” said Daniel, slapping his thigh.

“You're such a punk." Johnny caught him with his right arm before he could subside into the passenger seat and pulled him in against his side. Daniel made a slight sound of surprise, but it was a pleased sound too.

Johnny dropped his arm around his shoulders and slid his sunglasses back into place with his free hand, knee briefly lifting to hold the wheel.

“Home,” decided Daniel, making himself comfortable, “is a _very_ good look on you.”


	5. Johnny vs Second Impressions

Johnny squinted.

Mr. Miyagi stared.

The dojo was, no other word for it – beautiful. The moment Johnny saw it, he felt like he understood Daniel's karate a little bit better. This wasn't a gym or fucking exercise studio, it was a _life_. Specifically, his sensei's life.

And sometime later, when they were away and Johnny has recovered from probably being found wanting, he was going to really lay into Daniel. Maybe put him in a headlock or something. To think he thought for even a second his sensei wasn't coming back for him, or didn't care about him – god, how stupid can you get.

For now, though, he kneeled at a low table and tried to withstand the scrutiny. Was he supposed to not look away? Blink? Was he losing if he blinked? Was he _supposed_ to lose, would that be the respectful thing to do? Johnny didn't like losing. But man, his eyes were very dry.

Neither of them had said a word so far. In some corner of his brain, Johnny thought this might last for the rest of his life.

“And heeeere's Johnny!” said Daniel, finally walking back into the room, having sorted the contents of his bag and settled into the guest house. “Sorry, bad joke – did either of you see that flick? Freaked me right out, think I had nightmares for months. Anyway, yeah, here's Johnny, you remember Johnny, Mr. Miyagi?”

Mr. Miyagi blinked slowly and finally looked away from assessing Johnny to glance up at Daniel with what might've been incredulity, or maybe a belated heartbroken realization that his sole pupil was actually a complete fucking moron. Hard to say, because Johnny wasn't ordinarily the best at reading even other white people's faces. But for his part, he also stared up at Daniel, because—

Well. There was the tournament, where Johnny swept his leg and shoved him and generally acted like a dick. And before that there was the Cobra Kai dojo, where Johnny stood proudly next to his asshole of a sensei and offered to beat on Daniel in front of everyone. And before _that_ there was Halloween, where Johnny – well.

“Miyagi remember,” is all the man said.

Johnny pressed his lips together and tried to smile, but it was hard to say if his face actually moved. He felt stiffer than a new gi fresh out of its wrapping. He also felt kind of sick; the past still existed on the road, sure, but it was always in the rearview: visible only via a tiny eight-by-two inch rectangular mirror. Just then, it felt like it was overtaking him.

For a moment, he wanted very badly to get up and run to the Avanti and spray gravel driving away from this scene.

It was already a disaster, and what else had he expected? This was the problem with hanging around Daniel too much; his endless optimism wasn't infectious but it sure did make one forget just how bad things actually were.

Daniel flopped down next to Johnny at the table, and he didn't – do anything, but their shoulders brushed. Johnny snuck a sideways glance, but he was looking at his sensei, expression open as ever.

“Right, well – boy, have I got a story to tell you. Here I thought the fight in the castle was going to be the most exciting thing that ever happened to me, like – Chozen, whew. Remember Chozen?”

Johnny stood before he could find out whether Okinawans did things like slap their own faces in disbelief. Daniel looked up at him, mouth still open to presumably remind the man about the zipline psychopath. He gave Johnny a questioning look.

“I just,” said Johnny, gesturing jerkily towards the door. “I forgot something in the car. Be right back – no, really, man,” because Daniel was rising up on his knees, suspicious. He waved. “Just – carry on.”

He did not flee, but walked in a very calm manner back out to the Avanti. “'Remember Chozen?'” he muttered to himself once outside. “Jesus Christ.”

It wasn't that he had a low opinion of himself, but he was pretty sure nothing that happened in September beat the Okinawa trip. Daniel's priorities were too geared towards life; have sex a couple times and that outshines a death match, apparently.

God, he wasn't going to mention any of the sex stuff, right? He said he was going to take it slow, but what did that even mean, when it was Daniel saying it? Guy went from finding out Johnny liked dick to going to town on his in the space of like, a _day_.

Johnny hurriedly reached down over the passenger side and opened the glove compartment.

“Uh – here, sir,” he said to Mr. Miyagi, back inside. He held out a postcard with the Sante Fe railway on the one side. “Daniel wrote it in New Mexico—”

“Texas, actually,” said Daniel, blinking between the postcard and Johnny, and if he wasn't careful about how he was looking at him, that whole delicate, strategic plan to gradually tell his sensei about the two of them was going to be super awkwardly unnecessary.

“You started it in New Mexico, whatever.” He resumed kneeling and took a quick sip of the water in front of him. “He didn't have an address for your place in Okinawa, and apparently he's allergic to hard work if there's no trophy in it, so—”

Daniel shoved him, but Mr. Miyagi didn't see, because he was turning the postcard over in his hands. If he could read that dense block of chicken-scratch, power to him.

Eventually Mr. Miyagi set the postcard aside and looked between them, eyes lingering on Johnny but finally landing on his friend.

“Daniel-san promise story?”

Daniel smiled. “Right, so I'll skip the first part, it's pretty boring – shut up, Johnny – so there I was on the side of the road outside Victorville....”


	6. Johnny vs Goodbye

Daniel trailed him out the front of the dojo, past the line of tarp-draped cars Johnny was dying to investigate, and through the gate. He latched it behind him and turned and snaked his arms around Johnny's hips, fingers hooking through his belt loops.

“There,” he said, walking Johnny backwards towards the Avanti; Johnny had to take it on faith he wasn't going to let him trip. “That wasn't so bad, was it?”

They fetched up against the car, and Johnny pulled Daniel in close. “He barely said like, ten words to me.”

His hips were jostled. “Yeah, sure, he's a quiet guy, takes some time to warm up to people.” Daniel cocked his head, eyes traveling up and to the side like he was tracking a dust mote. “Weird, why does that sound so familiar?”

He rolled his eyes and pulled him up into a very thorough kiss. Daniel opened into it immediately and made a low, pleased sound that Johnny swore he could feel in his spine. It was quiet and easy, like this: out here. He had to keep reminding himself there was no countdown, no mileage to watch. It was just them, together, with no reason on the horizon why they shouldn't be always.

Except dinner with his mom.

“I uh,” he said, between kisses, “I kind of have to get going.” Daniel's sigh was a warm gust against his neck. Johnny looked over his shoulder, back at the dojo. “You sure your sensei's going to be cool?”

Daniel eased back but didn't let him go. He looked at him with a quizzical smile. “Yeah. And, I mean – we didn't even tell him anything.”

Johnny didn't want to overstate his own awesomeness or anything, but he kind of thought it was hard to spin the Greyhound chase as platonic. He hadn't realized Daniel was going to mention that part when telling the story. When Mr. Miyagi glanced his way, he'd had to fight to sit still and look like, just a really great buddy.

“Right,” he said.

“You worry too much.”

And that made Johnny kiss him again, because it was either that or headlock time. It was another several minutes before his hands found Daniel's and began the torturous process of extricating himself from his grip.

“Gotta go,” he murmured.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Daniel, finally stepping back. He watched as Johnny got behind the wheel, and then they looked at each other.

“So – what now?” asked Johnny. The rest of the fall stretched out in front of them, completely open but for the part where they both probably needed to get jobs and figure out what to do with their lives. (No biggie.)

Daniel took a step back. “Now, you go sit by the phone in your glorious mansion—”

“Pool house, I told you, it's the damn pool house.”

“ – and wait for my call.”

“Wait for your call,” repeated Johnny, checking his mirrors. “So formal. Am I applying to something? Are we starting a business?”

Daniel threw him a finger gun. “Don't call me, I'll call you. Or – y'know, you could call me. Go ahead. Mr. Miyagi might pick up, but don't let that stop you. I love getting phone calls.”

Johnny put his elbow out the window and watched him back up. “Yeah, I bet you do.”

“But if you do call you have to talk,” warned Daniel. He was back near the gate now. “None of that heavy breathing stuff, it's kind of creepy.”

Johnny looked around the front of the Avanti for something he could throw, but his commitment to maintaining a clean interior defeated him.

“Hey, Johnny?” He gave up and looked back over at him. Daniel smiled quietly. “Talk to you tonight? Same time?”

It was difficult to remember he didn't have to look away or hide his own smile. “So long as you remember you're on Pacific time again.” He predicted Daniel was going to face plant and fall asleep by like, nine.

Daniel put his hand up like he was swearing an oath. “Already changed my watch and everything.”

Johnny started the car and eased away from the curb. He watched his rearview as he drove away, same as Daniel stayed outside and watched until he turned the corner. It was a good-bye, but it was okay.

Who was he kidding; he missed him already.


	7. Johnny vs Microwave Dinners

His mom was on the phone when he got home, and she tried to communicate to him via short, wordless gesturing that he should do something about dinner. What, precisely, was unclear; they didn't exactly have a full kitchen, and anyway, neither of them were much good at cooking. The past few weeks had involved a lot of takeout, but he couldn't exactly order anything while she was using the phone.

One of Laura's gold digger (“don't you call ever call her that again, Johnny”) divorced friends from the country club had told her it was important to stand their ground and maintain residency during the divorce proceedings, and so there they were, holed up in the pool house, separated from the enemy encampment by a chlorine pool and set of lounge chairs. It was a little weird.

“I was just wondering if there was anything that could be done,” she said, pacing. “He keeps trying to – no, nothing like that. It's not like that. But I don't want to talk to him, and isn't there like. A law about talking without lawyers present? Like he can't do it?”

Johnny opened the fridge and stared at its contents: a gallon of two percent milk, a quart of orange juice, half a bottle of white wine, six eggs, and four old white paper takeout containers. He closed the fridge and wandered back into the other room.

“I _know_ it's not the same as with cops,” she said, and her hand was on her hip, uh oh. “I'm not stupid, Leonard. I'm just saying, don't I have any civil rights here?” She turned and spotted him. Johnny gestured behind him at the fridge and shrugged; she covered the receiver with her hand and whispered, “Freezer.” And then louder and into the phone, “I don't know Miranda, who's Miranda? Is that the name of his lawyer? No, I _don't_ think I'm being ridiculous.”

Johnny went back to the kitchenette and checked the freezer. It was stocked full of microwavable meals. Awesome: not.

He took two out and set to reading the directions, but the conversation in the other room kept distracting him.

He always felt guilty when he overheard any of the divorce stuff; yeah, Sid was an asshole, and had never been good enough for his mom, but he'd kept her comfortable. Now here she was living in a pool house, about to eat frozen beef stroganoff, and all because Johnny wasn't smart enough about hiding his skin mags.

With a couple minutes left on the microwave, the sound of the phone call ended in the other room.

He glanced over when she came in, not moving his elbow from the counter, or his chin from his palm.

“Well, you don't look exactly thrilled,” she said, passing a light hand over his hair as she headed for the fridge. She took out the bottle of wine and glanced sideways at him. “Is something wrong? Daniel get in alright?”

He straightened up. “Yeah, it's fine. He's fine. I dropped him at his sensei's place.” His face went a little hot, like it always did every time they talked about Daniel. It felt like he was spilling state secrets or something. “What was that about? Did Sid say something today?”

She poured a generous glass of wine. “Just the usual crap. Nothing you need to worry about.”

The microwave dinged, and she flashed him a smile. “You get those and I'll grab the silverware?”

Over dinner, he described for her the dojo, and he thought he was doing a pretty good job of it, until she used her fork to jostle his dinner a little.

“So far I've heard twice as many words out of you about the punching bags than about Daniel. Johnny,” she said sternly, “did you start dating this boy so you could infiltrate his gym space?”

“What?” He shook his hair out of his eyes. “No. I just – I don't know what you want me to say.”

“Well – you're on the phone every night. And you hate the phone.” She spun her fork in the air slowly and squinted at him. “So... what do you two talk about?”

He shrugged. “Stuff. I don't know.”

“Alright, alright, don't tell me.”

“No, really – _I don't_ _know_ ,” he said, insistent. It seemed really important to get the point across: “Daniel never shuts up. He could talk about anything. He _has_ talked about anything. Sometimes it feels like he's probably talked about _every_ thing, and at some point he circled back around to cover old ground – what? Why are you looking at me like that?”

She toasted him with her glass of wine, and continued to poorly bite back her grin. “Oh, y'know – young love. It's just so beautiful, is all.”

His face went hot again and he mutinously shoveled a forkful of beef stroganoff into his mouth.


	8. Johnny vs Jet Lag

“I'm not falling asleep.”

Johnny tucked the receiver against his ear and discreetly cracked his beer at arm's length. “Uh huh.”

“Really, I'm not. It's barely nine-thirty.”

He walked back over to the lounge chair in the middle of the room holding the phone base in one hand and his beer in the other. He set the phone down on the ground and reclined back, sipping from his can.

“It's called jet lag, and I don't think you can will yourself out of it.”

“It's called jet lag, he says.” 

“Well, it is.”

“Have you ever even had jet lag? No, because you've never flown out of your own time zone before. It's a measly three hour difference, that's nothing. Trust the expert here, okay, I just need to push through, adjust, and I'll be fine."

If he shut his eyes and focused, he could almost pretend he was there beside him. “Or you could stop being stupid, and just go to sleep?”

Daniel sighed heavily over the phone. “Do you think the romance has gone out of the relationship?”

And: no. Johnny checked the levels of the romance meter regularly, made sure to keep it topped up. Daniel wasn't allowed to know about the meter, because he'd mess it around.

“No,” he said, and sipped his beer.

“I mean, you're calling me stupid, you're pretending to not get why I want to stay awake.” A yawn, poorly stifled. “'M just saying, Johnny. Just saying.”

“What are you saying?” he asked, putting his head back on the lounge chair to stare at the ceiling.

“...What?” asked Daniel. He'd totally lost the plot.

“This is dumb. You should just go to bed.”

He sighed. “Maybe.” A rustle of something that might've been sheets; had he carried the phone into the spare bedroom? How long was that cord? He wasn't moonily sitting around with his sensei five feet away, was he? “Wish you were here.”

Johnny's fingers tightened around the can. “Yeah.”

“I mean, weeks of thinking about it, and here we are still stuck talking on the phone instead of having amazing sex.”

Johnny rolled his eyes and tipped the can back. “Yeah – hey, what are you doing tomorrow? I thought we could get lunch and go to the beach or something. You know, get you reacquainted with a proper state, since you just got back from living in an igloo or whatever.”

“Johnny Lawrence,” said the impossibly smug voice, “Are you suggesting—”

“Yes,” he interrupted, mindful of the possibility of a sensei in the background. “I mean, maybe. If no one's around. I'll think about it.”

And now Daniel sounded affronted. “You'll think about it. Well, hey, don't do many favors, pal.”

Johnny had to actually take the phone away from his ear so he could hold it up and make a bewildered face at the place where his voice was coming from. Phones were so stupid. How was he supposed to communicate like this?

He fitted the phone back to his ear and said, a little impatiently, “Daniel, if you were here right now, I'd already have you naked in my lap, you trying to fit your knees over my shoulders – but you're _not_ here, and you're not gonna be, so I don't see the point in us torturing ourselves.”

There was a brief silence, and then Daniel said, “Like, I think you could have the skills for phone sex, but the spirit's just not willing? But that's okay. We can work our way up to it.”

Johnny dropped his mostly-empty beer in favor of covering his face. He couldn't even protest or say no, or whatever, because he didn't want to put up with Daniel's complaining, but like – _no_ , they were never, ever having phone sex. How excruciating would that be? All of the commentary on Napoleon's march on Russia and none of the dick fondling.

“I'll see you tomorrow?” asked Johnny, hand still over his eyes.

“Yeah. Yes.” Another rustle; maybe he really was in bed already? Daniel's voice was hushed when he spoke again, “Okay, so like – you hang up first.”

Johnny's brow furrowed. “Uh, okay?”

And so he did.


	9. Johnny vs The Letter

They met at a burger stand near the beach, the Avanti and Daniel's classic Ford making the small parking lot into a bit of an impromptu car show.

Johnny stood back and admired the view, thinking about how lucky he was that he was dating someone who also happened to have a cool car; it would be embarrassing if he had to park next to like, a Buick LeSabre. But this felt right: Johnny's beautiful speed machine and Daniel's impractical-but-pretty throwback. They looked good together.

Daniel was distracted, and apparently in no mood to appreciate the scenery. He got out of his car and rounded it, talking all the while, and kept talking as he passed Johnny; kept talking as he turned back around and hooked his arm around Johnny's to tow him away from the cars; kept talking as they walked up to the window to order.

“And the thing is, I don't think he even read it,” he said, resuming his rant after they'd given the girl their order. Daniel perched on the nearest concrete parking block and threw his hands out. “Like, I bet as soon as he saw who it was from, he was like, All Valley Tournament who? Sorry, don't know it!”

“All Valley?” said Johnny from where he was balancing on the edge of the block on just the toes of his left foot. “Wait, what are you talking about?”

Daniel put his head back and stared at him. “You haven't been listening.”

“Nope.”

“Nice, that's real nice.”

He stopped the balancing act and landed next to Daniel on the block, bumping their shoulders. He squinted over at their cars and made like he was thinking very hard. “You roll up and don't even say hello, or try to kiss me – I don't know, Daniel, do you think the romance has gone out of the relationship?”

Daniel glanced around the lot and then bumped forward into a quick kiss. “Hello, hello, hello,” he murmured. Johnny enjoyed the feeling of his reluctant smile against his jaw.

"Hi," he said. He folded his arms over his knees placidly. “So what's happening with the All Valley?”

He sighed and sat back. “I got a letter a while ago apparently, it was waiting for me in this pile – they've changed the rules about the tournament. I'd only have to fight in the final.”

“What?” Johnny looked at him, face twisting. “That's _bullshit_.”

And maybe this wasn't the sympathetic boyfriend response Daniel had been expecting, because he immediately said, sort of aggressively, “Why's it bullshit? It's my title, isn't it, it's mine to defend.”

“That's not how it works. Karate isn't wrestling, okay, the All Valley isn't the WWF. Do you know how many fighters make it to the final match two years in a row? It's pretty rare. My friend Tommy made it two years ago and he didn't even make it to the _semis_ last year.”

“You made it three years in a row.”

“Well – yeah, but that's because I'm really, really good.” It wasn't bragging if it was true; Johnny kicked ass like the ocean pushed tide.

Daniel pushed up from the block and stood there, glaring down at him with his hands on his hips. “So you don't think I deserve to fight in the final.”

“That's not what I said.”

This was the last thing he'd expected to be talking about today, and his brain was only starting to catch up and realize the honor of karate as a competitive sport maybe could take a temporary backseat to making sure Daniel didn't storm off on him. It was easy to forget when the other boy was usually alternating between being sweet and sex-obsessed, that he was also insanely competitive.

Johnny rubbed the back of his neck. “Look – I didn't even know you wanted to fight this year. I mean, we graduated. Wouldn't it be weird, beating on a bunch of high school kids?”

“You're telling me you weren't planning on fighting?” asked Daniel skeptically.

“I hadn't thought about it,” he said honestly. “I've been a little busy.” And he tried giving him a meaningful look, widening his eyes and raising his eyebrows, but Daniel was already staring off into the distance. What the hell. This date was really getting off to a rough start.

He thought he could probably fix it if he just got Daniel distracted, but there wasn't much he could do while they waited for their food.

“So – your sensei doesn't want you to fight?” he asked, trying to sound appropriately sensitive. Maybe Daniel was just misinterpreting something.

“He said karate shouldn't be used to defend a plastic metal trophy.” No, that actually sounded pretty clear cut. “I mean, it's like it never even occurred to him that maybe that _plastic metal trophy_ is like, symbolic! Of my honor!”

And then he said a lot more, but Johnny was looking back at their cars, and wondering if he could convince Daniel to race sometime. There had to be a way to turn his competitiveness to Johnny's advantage, and he'd yet to think of a way to do it with sex.


	10. Johnny vs The Big Sulk

Johnny frowned against the wind and tried tugging the blanket into place. No good, he was going to need a rock or something to weigh the corner down.

“Grab me a rock, will you?” he said to Daniel, who was still going on and on about the stupid letter.

Daniel walked up the beach a ways and kicked around until he found something. He came back and dropped it in Johnny’s lap, still yammering: a small rock no bigger than a Kennedy coin, what even.

“This is not a rock,” he said, interrupting the rant. “This is a _pebble_.”

Daniel threw his arms out, looking suddenly overwhelmed. “If all you have to offer is criticism, why not do it yourself? You’re acting just like _him_ ,” and then he said a lot more, but Johnny was rolling first his eyes and then to his feet and going to find some proper weight stones.

When he got back, Daniel was sitting in the center of the wind-tossed blanket, knees to chest and glaring at the ocean like it had personally told him he could not fight in that year’s All Valley tournament.

Johnny shook his head and dragged the corners of the blanket out, thumping the rocks down with satisfaction. He knelt a moment longer in the sand, squinting at Daniel, who did not look around or say anything. He suppressed a sigh.

“You know what’s funny?” he said, stretching out beside the miserable hunched lump that was his boyfriend. He propped his head up on his elbow. “You don’t even like tournament fighting.”

“Oh, how would you know?” muttered Daniel.

Johnny reached out and lightly shoved his hip. He kept shoving until Daniel broke and shoved him back, and then Johnny used the extended arm to pull him in; Daniel cooperated, but his movements were jerky and quick, like his life was the worst, just the absolute _worst_ , poor Daniel LaRusso getting spooned on a beach.

Johnny tucked himself around him and looked down at his dark head. Already better. “You’re right, I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong—”

“Yeah,” snorted Daniel, folding his arm atop the one Johnny had slung around his waist, because even when he was being a fucking obnoxious punk, he still liked being held. “Damn right.”

“So tell me, man – how many tournaments have you fought in, beside last year’s All Valley?”

Daniel paused, and Johnny couldn’t see his full face, but he was pretty sure he could draw the narrow-eyed, quick-thinking expression he was probably wearing from memory.

“To answer the question you weren’t going to ask,” he said, now thoroughly enjoying himself, “ _yes_ , there are other tournaments. All year, there are tournaments throughout southern California. But of course you didn’t know that, because you _don’t like fighting in tournaments_.”

“I could’ve fought. I could’ve, if I’d known about them – except Mr. Miyagi probably would’ve refused to train me for those too!”

Johnny backed up a little, resisting Daniel’s pull in favor of rolling the other boy onto his back so he could look down at him. Daniel’s hair fell away from his forehead, and he met Johnny’s eyes with a stubborn expression, eyes dark.

“Daniel,” he said: very, very seriously, “you don’t like hitting people.”

And he opened his mouth to automatically deny this, but then he paused, uncertain. Johnny bit back a grin, but he wasn’t very good at it when looking at Daniel. And after a moment, Daniel started biting back a grin of his own. Okay, thank fuck: argument over.

“Your problem is – you just like winning.”

“Okay, that just makes me sound petty,” said Daniel, a second before Johnny kissed him quiet.

They're far away from other people and surrounded by dunes on three sides; it's the first real privacy they've had since Parsippany. It didn't take longer than a couple seconds for Daniel to get with the program and greedily pull Johnny over him.

He pinned the other boy's hips with his own, and nosed along his cheek, encouraging him to turn his head and let Johnny at his neck. He pressed a kiss to his pulse and said in his ear:

“Why would you want to train for a stupid tournament, anyway? It'll just cut down on our opportunities to do this.”

“You are right, you're so right,” said Daniel fervently. His hands reached around and squeezed his ass, and Johnny hadn't forgotten – couldn't forget – how easily and eagerly Daniel claimed possession of him, but he'd missed it so much. The way he opened to Johnny, drew him in. It felt like belonging. It felt like finally coming home.


	11. Johnny vs That Whole "Wouldn't It Be Nice" Thing

“Okay, so whenever I pictured this, I didn't really figure the sand into the equation. Maybe if it wasn't so windy?”

Johnny pursed his lips and turned his head to the side, tried spitting again. He could swear he still felt some grains on the tip of his tongue. “Fucking beach sex.”

Daniel reclined on his elbows, mouth cocked as he considered the situation. His shirt was unbuttoned and fluttering to the sides, and Johnny saw no reason why he shouldn't rest his head on his chest. And once that was done, there was no reason why Daniel shouldn't dig his hand up the back of his hair, which he did, and that was better.

“Don't get me wrong, obviously that was great. But I think there's a reason you don't see condoms advertising _scattered with sand for her pleasure_ , y'know?” Johnny grunted and turned his face in, shut his eyes. “Perhaps if we set up a tent. Do you own a tent? Of course you don't. I don't either. I wonder if Mr. Miyagi does – he'd probably let me borrow it. Of course we'd have to make it an actual like, weekend camping trip or something, because explaining why I wanted a tent for just the afternoon would be revealing a little too much, if you know what I mean. Can't be turning another man's tent into a sex tent. But if we did a weekend thing, actually camped with it and lots of sex happened to occur, well, that's different.”

“You just got back, and already you're planning another trip?” said Johnny.

The hand in his hair tightened a little and shook his head. “Hey, you're invited. I'm not suggesting I go off into the woods by myself and spend two days jerking off.”

“No, I mean – are we seriously going to sneak off someplace every time?” he asked. The idea that they had to even plan ahead for it felt weird. Like, there was planning ahead in a good way, obviously. But every time? Seemed like a lot of work. What if it started to feel forced? It had felt so simple in September. Well. Terrifying and crazy. But also: somehow simple.

“You're right, that's not sustainable. Damn, this is why make-out points exist in movies, huh. Where does one go to get a hickey from Kenickie, or....” he fell silent.

Johnny blinked over at the dunes. “You're trying to think of something that rhymes with my name, aren't you.”

“...Maybe.”

He raised his head and leaned up to kiss him, slow and comfortable. Daniel hummed, and the low, happy sound filled Johnny's head, momentarily obliterating all doubts.


	12. Johnny vs The Mechanics Of Handholding

Taking advantage of an empty schedule that came with being two guys out of school with no jobs, they walked along the beach for a while afterwards. Daniel found a long piece of driftwood and dragged it through the sand behind them, a line that was lifted and sifted back into nothing when the tide rolled in.

Johnny looked out at the waves and thought very intently about grabbing his hand. He had gotten pretty good at reaching out for Daniel in general, but the whole handholding thing still felt really, really gay. He thought he just needed to visualize the line of attack.

“Didn't you say yesterday you had some grand idea for the future?” he asked.

Daniel looked over at him. After a second, he switched to walking backwards; his expression made Johnny preemptively sigh.

“You mean you were actually listening?” he inquired with slow dawning delight.

“Oh, c'mon,” said Johnny.

Daniel threw his hands out, and the piece of driftwood went flying. It didn't look intentional. Johnny looked after it, unimpressed. “He listens to me! My boyfriend listens to me. This has to make me the most powerful figure on the planet, at least—”

“ _At least_?”

Daniel stopped walking, and put his hand over Johnny's chest. He looked up at him solemnly. “Fear not, I will use this knowledge responsibly.”

He was so embarrassing. Johnny slapped his hand away and shoved him lightly along to get him walking again. Daniel fell back into step at his side.

“So you going to tell me your big idea or not?”

“Well,” he said, elbowing him, “since you're so interested—”

“Never mind. I don't care, I don't want to know.”

“So you know how they decided to turn my old apartment into overpriced condos for the nonexistent rising upper middle class of Reseda? And how Mr. Miyagi lost his job, and his old workroom?”

“I am familiar with that tragedy,” told to him in nine-parts; Daniel should consider getting a backing orchestra one of these days, “but what can you do about it?”

“Glad you asked,” he said brightly. “So Mr. Miyagi's big thing is his bonsai trees, right? He's always wanted to open up a proper nursery, but the man's not exactly practiced at acting on his wants, right? Luckily, he's got me now. And me, I see what people need, I see what they want, and I try to reconcile the two, make something happen. It's my thing, it's what I'm good at.”

“I feel like you're trying to sell me something, I'm just not sure what.”

Daniel looked at him, eyebrows lifting. “Hm?”

“Get to the point,” elaborated Johnny.

He put his hands up; Johnny followed their path through the air and thought about grabbing one of them. Both of them? Do people hold both hands? This had never seemed so complicated with Ali.

“Okay, okay – so what I want to do is find a place for Mr. Miyagi's tree shop. Surprise him with the lease.”

He blinked. “But won't that cost money? Like, wasn't that the whole problem in the first place?”

“Yeah, but I figure I can just use my money from the ice-breaking competition,” Daniel said blithely.

Johnny stopped walking. It took a few steps for Daniel to notice he was no longer beside him and look around.

“Your money,” he said. “From the ice-breaking competition.”

“Yeah? Back in the summer, in Okinawa.”

Johnny rubbed the back of his neck roughly and stared at him, this moron who tried hitchhiking across the country a few months ago because he was oh-so-broke. Daniel finally seemed to understand his frustration. He rolled his eyes.

“Oh, gimme a break, Johnny. Don't start, okay? That money was for something special – I mean, it was supposed to be for college, but that's what Mr. Miyagi said, _I_ never said it. And I've thought about it a lot, and I think this is what I want to do with it. I mean, I wouldn't have won the money in the first place if he hadn't taught me how to do it.” He paused and reflected. “Wouldn't have had to compete in the first place, if he hadn't bet on me. Though maybe I shouldn't've been talking to loud next to the guys with the ice, think they took issue with that. Some people can't handle constructive criticism.”

Screw handholding, Johnny thought. Time to play to his strengths.

He grabbed Daniel up and swung him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, smirking at his slight yelp of surprise. He spun them twice, because it felt like a thing to do.

“You are so stupid,” he said and started walking again.

“What the hell, Johnny, you don't just pick a guy up out of the blue like this,” came his voice over his shoulder. “You have to let me prepare myself, so I can focus. Appreciate it.” He sighed and shifted in his grip. “Though this feels more undignified than sexy. _Not_ my favorite position. Take note.”

“I thought you were mad at your sensei. Now you're going to get him a whole shop?”

“I am mad. Well – that's overstating things, I'm annoyed with him. But what's that got to do with anything? I'm a reasonable person, I can compartmentalize.” He drummed his hands on Johnny's back for a few seconds. “Look, all the blood's rushing to my head, you wanna maybe go over behind that brush over there and try the beach sex again?”


	13. Bobby & Reading Between The Lines

He had budgeted approximately two hours between dinner and a study session in the library for free time, and like some kind of fool he decided to spend part of it talking to a buddy from high school. Or rather, trying to talk to him: if he was home; if he took Bobby's call; if he wasn't too drunk or moody.

He'd had slightly more luck getting Johnny on the phone after he got back from his mysterious business trip out east – no, seriously, that's what the guy called it – but that wasn't saying much because Johnny, well, Johnny didn't say much. Phones were here to stay and had been for several generations, but try telling that to Johnny Lawrence. He'd probably be happy if people were still using the telegraph all the time.

(HEY BOBBY STOP BACK IN TOWN STOP WAS OUT OF TOWN STOP ALL GOOD STOP WANT TO GET SOME BEERS SOMETIME STOP THIS IS JOHNNY BY THE WAY STOP ran the ticker tape in Bobby's imagination.)

What Bobby did know, from his mom and the gossip circuit at the country club, was that Laura Lawrence was seeking a divorce, and had hired the slickest shark in the business. His mom didn't like Laura and had other things to add about _that_ , but Bobby tried not to listen. He'd always liked Johnny's mom.

So he sat in his dorm, a plate holding the demolished remains of his dinner at his elbow, and dialed the new number that would, theoretically, connect him to his friend. The phone rang twice before being answered.

“You have reached the Household of the Liberated Lawrences.”

“Uh – hi, Mrs. Lawrence? It's Bobby.”

“Bobby Brown! Always nice to hear a friendly voice – and please, you can start calling Ms. Lawrence. Or, hell, wait. I bet I could rock a Miss.” She made an absent, considering noise, and if she wasn't Johnny's mom, he'd assume she was just joking. But the Lawrences were weird, and he had no doubt she was genuinely thinking the possibility over, like any woman over the age of thirty who had a kid could walk around calling herself _Miss_.

Best not to touch that one directly. “I hear you are within your right to go by whatever you wish,” he said, shifting on the hard wooden desk chair that came with his room.

“Heard that, did you,” she said dryly, which meant she knew about the gossip. “Anyway, I take it you are calling for Johnny. You are in luck, he just got in.” And then she must've covered the receiver with her hand or something and shouted for Johnny; Bobby could hear a muffled returning shout. Her voice returned, clear again, “He'll be right along, he said. So tell me, how's college?”

He talked for a minute or two about Pitzer and Claremont, by now extremely well-practiced at answering _how's college_ questions from his parents. He knew he'd have to face such inquiries in triplicate come Thanksgiving, so more practice never hurt.

“Okay, here he comes – it was _so_ good hearing from you, Bobby. I'm glad you called him,” she said, and as a parting sentiment, it didn't _not_ make him suspicious that something was going on over there.

“Hey, Bobby, what's up,” said Johnny, as if it was last year and they'd just talked the day before. But Bobby was not going to try getting into anything over the phone, not with this guy.

“Party tomorrow night just off campus. You coming? You're coming.”

“Uh, well,” said Johnny, and Bobby struck fast.

“C'mon, man. College chicks, kegs, and – right, me. That guy you've been dodging for a couple months. You come over here, we party, you sleep on my floor. It'll be great.”

“Great, yeah. Great, sounds great.”

“So you're coming.” He tipped his chair on its back legs and studied the map on the wall above his desk.

“I gotta – I gotta think about it, there might be—”

Lord lend him strength and patience. “Johnny, man, whoever she is, just bring her along.” And when Johnny didn't respond immediately, he added, “Yeah, you think I don't remember the first six months you dated Ali and disappeared off the face of the earth? You are so predictable, man.”

Some guys just got like that with relationships; they start dating a girl and drop all their friends like they can't think about anything or anyone else. Bobby had never understood it, and it wasn't that he'd never been serious about a girl, but he was a practical and laid back kind of guy. Johnny got too intense with some stuff. Most stuff.

“Look, okay, I'll be there,” said Johnny, sounding a little fed up, “Where is it?”

“Just come by my dorm, we'll head over. You bringing the girl?”

“...No, no I don't think so.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Suit yourself. But if you spend the entire night moping, I'm going to empty an entire keg down the front of your jeans.”

“I'm not gonna mope. I don't mope.”

Bobby bit back the noise he wanted to make about that. “Whatever. Look, can you get here by six? We can pre-game, and you can tell me about what the hell you've been doing the past couple months before the others get here.”

“Who all is coming?” And there was something strange in his voice, Bobby didn't think he was imagining that.

“Tommy and Jim. Wasn't able to get a hold of Dutch, but honestly, the idea of Dutch anywhere near my campus is kind of horrifying, so I'm alright with that.” It was one thing to have some wild friends from high school, but another if they were the type to try lighting swimming pools on fire (and somehow almost succeeding).

“Tommy and Jim. Yeah, alright, that should be good. Six, I can do that – but fuck, Bobby, I wish you'd went somewhere closer.”

And then Bobby did make a noise, because the Lord had apparently skimped on the patience. “Dude, weren't you driving to like, Monterey and shit _all the time_ last summer? Claremont has nothing on that. It's not even two hours – especially not with the way you drive.”

“Right,” said Johnny, “Yeah, I know.”

“I have to go study now, and I'm sure you have to go jerk off to pictures of your new girlfriend—”

“Oh, fuck you, man—”

“—so I'll let you go,” he finished, unperturbed. “See you tomorrow.”

And then Johnny hung up, because in the antiquated telegraphy of his mind, that was how phone conversations ended. Bobby shook his head and put the phone back into the cradle. Some guys.


End file.
